


Our Next Stop

by DrByron



Category: Trainspotting Series - Irvine Welsh
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Breathplay, Catharsis, Family Feels, Friends to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gentleness, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Open Relationships, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Scottish Character, Scottish Dialect, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrByron/pseuds/DrByron
Summary: [This is an epilogue to the last Trainspotting novel “Dead Man’s Trousers”]It’s 2016. Initially unbeknownst to each other, Mark Renton and Franco Begbie both had left Edinburgh to live their new respective lives in California. For decades, they’ve been playing cat and mouse. ‘The betrayal’ in their 20s, and the resulting damage to their friendship, had never ceased to haunt them. But when they met again just over a year ago, things were different - they were different people in all-new circumstances. With Franco having undergone extensive therapy, he had long dropped the wish for revenge. And soon, new shared experiences repaired their old friendship.With no resentment between them anymore, they can finally hang out as friends again. They spend a day at Franco’s house, just the two of them. This finally gives them the opportunity to explore their intense feelings for each other, both in the past and right now. A shared DMT trip helps to break down any last barriers, exposing their most vulnerable selves in a psychological AND physical way.
Relationships: Francis "Franco" Begbie/Mark "Rent Boy" Renton
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Our Next Stop

**Author's Note:**

> [SPOILER WARNING! Since this is an epilogue to “Dead Man’s Trousers”, it contains major spoilers about what happens in the book. It’s an epilogue to the epilogue. But even if you haven’t read the book, I’ve included all important information. So it makes sense as a stand-alone story without prior knowledge, too. :) ]

Begbie’s workshop wasn’t meant to host guests, you could tell. Probably wanted to work in peace and avoid too much distraction. There was one barebone chair made of splintered wood and metal framing. Totally at odds with the rest of the house’s interior design that looked straight out of a Better Living California magazine. That chair was a bitch to sit in, so I resorted to standing and slowly pacing around to look at his ‘art’. Aye, my formerly hyperviolent criminal friend Franco Begbie had undergone a transformation into the acclaimed artist Jim Francis. Heard he had a reputation of being the enfant terrible of the modern art world, despite being a sober, calm and very private person. Married his art therapist whom he met in prison, Melanie, and they have two daughters together. Almost unbelievable that, but I’ve gotten used to the thought in the last one and a half years. It’s only been that long since Franco had been back in my life again, due to a fateful meeting on an airplane, and the absolutely insane coincidence that we both had moved to California. It was a rocky path to being genuine friends again — even though he had shown zero hostility from the start. The past simply hadn’t let go of me for the longest time, while he had long moved on. Didn’t help that he had refused to take the money that I had owed him. And maybe I couldn’t quite believe he’d forgiven me in my absence, that a person could change that drastically. But I had to find out that sometimes the support is enough to help even a hopeless case grow. And I got the feeling he’d be that for me, now.  
  
“Remember the painting this Van Helden bloke bought at the vernissage?” Franco commented as he nodded towards a bunch of canvasses in one corner of the room. “‘Blood on the tracks’. Made a couple oaf um. Could sey it’s a series. Ah just felt like daein a few perspectives, ken. Tae get it right.”  
“Personal piece?” I asked.  
“Wasnae a commission, ah suppose. ‘Leith Heads’ is the early personal work. Making casts of the blokes central to my formative years. You and Sick Boy and Spud and me. This? This is just... a thing I painted.”  
I considered the pictures. A blood-covered skinny bloke tied to railway tracks, somewhat distorted. Hard to tell whether he was already run over or waiting for his impending doom. Some versions seemed to suggest one thing more than the others. One painting in extra broad landscape even had another figure standing in the background. A predator. You could only see them from the waist down, barely more than a shadow, and easy to miss in the background noise of bushes and trees. Had a rage to them, these paintings, made more vicious by the brush strokes of the self-taught outsider artist. If those would turn up in somebody’s attic or yard sale, kids would discuss them on Reddit and make Youtube videos about their theories. That’s how cursed and uncomfortable they looked. And rich bastards paid big money for that shite, just because somebody claimed it was the hip thing to own. Guess people saw a kind of Scottish Francis Bacon in him, fleshy shapes distorted and mutilated by implied acts of violence.  
Ah was happy for Franco, but it made me resent the art world a little. He didn’t seem to mind or even care about such things as ‘artistic integrity’ or ‘self-expression’, tae be honest, ah think it was still just therapy for um. An outlet. And getting paid big dosh for something that is just meant to keep you sane and satisfied is the biggest fucking luck in my books.  
  
Meanwhile, I was working my baws off as a manager for DJs, or rather, a nanny for a bunch of children posing as adult musicians. I gave up on being a DJ myself, but ah didn’t mind. The past few months made me realize that this was what kept ME sane: To have a bunch of unhinged chaotic bastards to watch and take care of, to be responsible for them in a way that I couldn’t be for myself. I looked at Franco’s profile as he looked outside, rather than at the paintings. So calm and almost coldly distant. Everyone thought he had left his old life behind, turned a new leaf and became a peaceful upstanding citizen. But I knew better, his wife Melanie knew better. He just had become another type of psychopath, the type that has self-control and wit. He was more dangerous than before, more in control of his lethal nature and more creative in his expression. But I couldn’t help but look at him with a feeling of utter love in my chest. Franco, my old mate, with no shred of revenge fantasies left in him. We were just casually spending time together at his amazing home, after all these years of playing cat and mouse and deep feelings of guilt and fear. We had both escaped Leith for good. With my apartment over in L.A., I was spending a lot of time with him again. We had exchanged chugging beers in dingy pubs for sipping infused mineral waters at the beach. And toxic friends on the streets for a supportive family at home. Mad.  
  
“Never noticed before.” I said. “But is this a theme for the great artist known as Jim Francis, train tracks?” Jim Francis, the name he adapted when he moved to the USA. I never used it except in moments of sarcasm. I rubbed my chin in an impersonation of an art critic. He gave a shrug.  
“Maybe ah should paint a skinny bloke slaughtering a bunch of polis pigs with a baseball bat?” Franco playfully punched my arm and threw me a warm smile.  
“It was only one!” I chuckled nervously, still a little traumatized by the event he was referring to. "And he’s alive and well. Getting arse-fucked in jail, probably.”  
He broke into laughter first, a big Scottish guffaw, but immediately caught himself doing it.  
“Rape jokes arenae funny.” He said, mostly to himself. “But they’re kind of a riot when they’re about a polis pig who tried to harm my wife and children.”  
“And you, Franco.” I added.  
“And me. Aye.”  
I shook my head with a smile. Franco put an arm around my shoulders and shook me in a gesture of friendship. If I hadn’t come to his place to ask him for money that night, this crazy ex-policeman, who was an obsessed stalker of his wife Melanie, might as well killed him and his family. I’m still astonished where I got the confidence and violence to beat the guy up with a baseball bat. Almost killed him, for sure. I had gone rabid, full blackout, rage-fueled bloodlust. Didn’t even have time to think, just time to react, work with my instinct. It was almost like I got a taste of what Begbie’s whole formative years must’ve been like. The way he smiled at me now made me feel like we’ve never been closer, like we never understood each other better.  
  
“You’re my fucking hero, Rent Boy.”  
“I’m just glad I was there, Frank.” I felt sick thinking back to the scene, but gave him a brave smile.  
“You were insane, mate. You beat that wanker unconscious, like ye wis ready to end um! For me!! Never knew ye hud it in ye.” He softly bumped our heads together. “That was the only wey I could be sure ye wir doing this for me, not your own guilty conscience. You care, mate. I’m almost moved to tears, even now.” He was smiling at me with pride beaming in his eyes. That was definitely the old Franco. The violent bloke who’d kill for me, rough around the edges and feared by many, but the most loyal soul ah’d ever known. Who jist wanted to be my protector, even though I probably got into more trouble because of him and his choleric outbursts. He was still in there. I grew to love the friction between his new persona and the remnants of his old self. Made my heart fucking flutter, to be honest.  
  
It’s been some time since the two of us had spent time together alone. My dad was watching our bairns, my kid Alex and Franco’s two daughters Grace and Eve. Dad had insisted that he’d be fine, and I think he’s enjoying taking care of the little ones a lot. My new apartment was coming along great, a new home for this three-generational household of Rentons, here in California. Meanwhile, my girlfriend Vicky and Franco’s lady Melanie were downtown walking our dogs, striking up a little friendship themselves. Who would’ve thought that our lady friends would one day get along so well, we used to have such different tastes. But after all the double dates we’ve been on in the last year, it was only logical they’d become friendly. We had met in this group of four more often than Franco and I had met in private.  
We had probably avoided it.  
Well, he had avoided it. So I wouldn’t bother him about paying him the money back so much. There was no reason for that kind of game anymore. With me saving his family’s life, we were even.

* * *

We had moved to the garden, reclined on lounging chairs with some mineral water with lemon and fresh ice cubes in it. He had offered me a beer, but I decided to let myself get infected by his newfound healthy lifestyle instead. The Californian afternoon sun was overhead and warming our skin, but we were in a comfortable half-shade. I adjusted a pillow underneath my back to diminish the impending backache. I had connected my phone to a Bluetooth speaker to play some fresh sets of my DJane Emily, and Franco accepted it, rather than enjoyed it (I think).  
  
“Franco. Sorry to not let that go. But... about the DMT trip the other week.”  
I had gathered the old gang to do some DMT together, after a revelatory trip I had myself. It was great fun for everyone, a spiritual journey full of wisdom and insights, but Franco had insisted he had seen nothing. That it didn’t work on him. And I had a hard time believing that, feeling that he was just keeping a secret. Maybe now, with how things have changed, he would be more willing to open up. The curiosity was killing me. Franco never did drugs! And now that he had, he didn’t share his experience?  
  
“What about it?” He mumbled.  
“You saw something, didn’t ye? You saw more than just some colours.”  
He hesitated and drank a few gulps of the fizzy water. Gazed into the sky all wistfully. He was considering it, at least. Which meant there WAS something to talk about.  
“Awright... fuck it... I’m gaunna tell ye.” He said.  
“Oh? Now ah’m curious.”  
“I was sitting at a long dinner table...” He began. “At the head of it. And everyone was there, you, Sick Boy, Spud, Second Prize, Tommy, Mikey Forrester.. the Mother Superior too, ah think... And there were some more blokes we used to know. A bunch oaf um... Thing is, all of them were dead.”  
“You sat there with zombies? Or like, corpses?” I asked.  
Franco chuckled and poured me more water from the pitcher.  
“They were alive then. As if nothing had ever happened and we wis aw best of pallies. And there was loads of fancy food, spread across the table. And we jist had us a feast, eating like we wis rich n aw.”  
“...so I was right!” I sat up in excitement. “Remember, I did say that you probably saw some ‘last supper’ shite!”  
“Aye, ye were spot oan, ah guess. Eerie that.“  
“Yir not just saying that to say something, ye actually saw that?”  
“Aye, ah’m no joking. Not quite a _Da Vinci_ , but... ye ken how that painting has kind of a bleak, geometric background?”  
I tried to remember it and nodded, even though the background of the image wasn’t in my immediate memory at all. Just the people gesticulating n aw. Made me wonder if Franco had now a better understanding of the art world than I had, considering my focus had fully shifted to music...  
“Well, felt similar in my vision. We wis at the inside of a train station. Grey brick walls, creeping in on us, claustrophobic if it wasnae so oddly cozy. Dirty, dusty, abandoned. Definitely Scottish. Like we wis all waiting to get somewhere and just enjoying the time waiting.”  
“That’s it?” I furrowed my brow.  
“That’s... that’s it.” He replied.  
  
I looked at him. He squinted towards the moving sun that was slowly starting to blind us. I got the impression that wasn’t the whole truth, but it was good enough for the time being. I turned towards him, sitting sideways on the recliner.  
  
“You wanna go another time?” I asked.  
“What do you mean?”  
“I have a bit of DMT on me. We’re alone. We can have another hit, if yir up for it. Ah hud the experience that my vision kinda continues, thematically at least. Don’t you wanna know where we wir all going, in yir vision?”  
“Yes.” He said, with no hesitation at all. Maybe I’d get some more secrets out of him, if he saw some more and needed to share it. Maybe he’d be more willing, with it just being the two of us, and nobody else around.  
“Is that a yes _, let’s do it_?”  
“Aye, let’s do it.”

* * *

We had moved to the living room because it had a nice carpet and a good couch. We smoked from an improvised plastic bottle pipe which I had brought along, knowing the Francis’ household would probably avoid plastic waste. Three deep drags, making sure the last one stayed in our lungs. We leaned back against the couch and comfortably slipped into our respective visions for minutes that felt like an hour. For me, that meant more flying, more tiny stone dwarfs, which felt like old friends already. When I came to again, I noticed Frank and I were leaning against each other, shoulder to shoulder. When our eyes met lazily, I figured we were both back, but still seeing the colours and lights dance in front of our eyes, still feeling heavy and comfortable.  
“So... Did you see where you were going...?” I whispered, smiling.  
“Naw... But it continued, like ye said... I hadn’t told you everything about the last trip... it began right in the middle of that.”  
“Do tell, mate... do tell...” I smiled broadly and slowly rubbed his arm. I leaned my head onto his shoulder, listening.  
“We wis sitting next to each other, Mark...we didn’t eat, like all the others. I suddenly dragged you onto the table...”  
I playfully intertwined my fingers with his, feeling so at one with the world and the universe that it felt natural.  
“I had you on the table in front of everybody else...” He said. Had me? Had me do what?  
“Like, I fucking shagged you...” He continued in a monotone voice, as if he was listening to himself speak, and was not the one speaking.  
“And I ripped you apart while fucking you. Literally ripped your fucking body apart. And the others ate up the pieces, until you were all gone.”  
  
I untangled our hands and tried to sit up. I looked at him, almost falling over, and he looked at me. We moved slowly, as if the flashing lights made us dizzy, but we didn’t really move much at all. Just looking at each other.  
“That’s fucked up.” I whispered.  
  
I looked into his eyes and at his mouth. Unreadable, so fucking distant, like he was hiding himself buried deep inside. But not aggressive, not uninviting. The mental image of his words had irrationally aroused me, what the fuck body, what the fuck. It had felt like a confession. Or the closest I would expect from Franco. An admission to his sexually charged feelings for me, a plea to help him figure them out, to help him explore them. My mind was overcome with an impulse. This was the moment, the single point in time where everything was possible, where the planets aligned to make it happen. Before I started to overthink it, I leaned forward. And placed my lips on his. And Franco didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. I had my eyes closed so I didn’t actually see his reaction. Maybe I was a little afraid of what he’d do, of me reading the signals wrong — because, wow, was that likely. But I got his response when he suddenly grabbed my neck with both hands and kissed back. Ohh, fuck. I parted my lips weakly, and his tongue urged itself in. We started snogging, heatedly making out. My hands had no clue where to go on his body, while he held my head in a firm grip.  
  
“Sorry...” I mumbled when our lips parted. “Or you’re welcome... I don’t even know.” I broke into a broad open-mouthed grin and laughed. Franco blinked slowly, looking a little out of it. My laughter couldn’t infect him, he was as dumbfounded as if I had just explained to him that the Earth was flat.  
“Don’t apologise...” He managed to say, eventually.  
So he was into it! And it gave me a thought. If this was what he was like on DMT, then maybe Franco had avoided the drugs all these years in fear of ending up in bed with me...  
  
“Now I get why you didn’t want tae admit that in front of the others... Or me, for that matter.” I said, about his vision.  
“I didn’t want tae give yis the satisfaction. You’ve been going oan about how great drugs are for decades.” He explained reluctantly, his hands still gently resting on my shoulders, nervously stiff.  
“Awright, that’s fair.” I tilted my head with an gentle smile.  
  
I pulled Franco’s arms around me, inviting him to hold me close. He let himself be seduced into giving me another kiss, me waiting for his move this time. He was first careful and hesitant, but as soon as our lips touched, he got bolder. Soon his tongue was involved, and the a hunger and greed overcame him again. I let myself be held and was feeling tingly all over. When we took a break to catch some air, I noticed that he wasn’t just breathing normally, he was taking deep, even breaths. Controlling his breathing, his chest rising and sinking with deep lungfuls.  
  
“I think ah’m slowly getting the hang of reading the new you better...” I said with a teasing smirk.  
“What are ye reading?” He mumbled.  
“Yir doing breathing exercises to calm down right now, the likes? You angry at me, or just very excited? Come on... you don’t need to hide that from me...” I brushed my palm over his cheek and his nostrils flared.  
  
“Ah’m a bit fucking overwhelmed, ye see.” His eyes turned cold, that killer look, and it was still as terrifying as it used to be. “Took a long fucking time for you to actually care about me, and not only your own self-absorbed shite...” He hissed.  
“You showed your ‘caring about me’ by trying to kill me, Franco.” I furrowed my brow.  
“Because I was hurt, Mark.“ He was still breathing deeply. Probably counting to ten in his mind.  
“Franco. Ah don’t think ah ever realised HOW MUCH you cared, back then. Ah wis just caught up in my own brain shite, stupid and an asshole. Ah’m just fucking glad I could make it up tae ye.”  
  
I placed a series of pleading gentle kisses on his mouth, on his jaw, on his neck. He held still, almost shy.  
  
“Fucking shite, that’s so much better than ah ever anticipated— ” I mumbled against his throat. “Feel like ah’ve been dying tae do this with ye, oh my god...” I tried to encourage Franco, make it less weird for him. It was a little weird for me, but fueled by the universal love unleashed by the DMT, I felt no hesitation to do it.  
“You dinnae even begin tae understand how ah feel right now.“ Franco mumbled, sliding a thumb along my lower lip. I licked his thumb, playfully taking it into my mouth.  
“Good, ah hope?” I teased, giving him a little bite.  
  
“Mark...” He suddenly said, ominiously. “My vision continued even further than what I telt ye...” One of his hands slid down my chest, and I let it. I was holding my breath, every hitch of his fingers on my shirt’s buttons a small exciting shock.  
“After you had literally torn me to shreds?” I gasped.  
“Aye. After they had eaten ye up... ye weren’t goan. It was the opposite. _Everything_ was you. The table, the food, the walls. Ye were the whole damn train station and the destination too.”  
  
While he was talking, I started unbuttoning my shirt, trailing after the path he had drawn with his hands. I tugged on the shoulders of his t-shirt and he took it off. We weren’t even discussing it or giving it any verbal acknowledgement. I pulled down my slacks, and he responded with doing the same. We stripped down to nothing, staring at each other with an unchanging expression of focus. As if we both couldn’t actually process the emotional implications of this, really.  
“You spent yir life trainspotting when ye could’ve just jumped aboard and catch a ride, mate...” I said philosophically, as I patted his shoulder.  
  
Franco roughly grabbed my waist and lifted me onto the couch. He knelt between my legs, placing slow kisses on the insides of my thighs. He wasn’t quite close shaven, so it tickled a little. I was dizzy with a wave of heat overcoming me, intensified by the lights that the DMT sprinkled across my view. What a surreal view that was — Franco Begbie between my naked legs, looking up at me with a lack of readability that was somehow terrifying. But his actions spoke louder than words, when he licked the underside of my shy erection. Took it into his mouth! Ohh, fuck... That was the last thing I expected Franco to do! I had expected him to lose his nerve, flip me face down and fuck me without preparation! I had expected him to slap me and force me into a blow job! Ken, something that a closet gay would do, angry at his object of desire for making him feel this things. But here he was stroking my thighs, caressing my shaft, worshipping my body. For a moment, I wondered whether all this was MY DMT trip, and not actually happening in reality.  
  
“Franco...” I gasped quietly. My legs were shaking, and seeking stability by placing both feet on the floor didn’t help. He didn’t get me all the way into his mouth. Not used to blowjobs but way more competent than I had expected him to be. I wondered whether his gay circle of friends had given him some insights over the time of their friendship — and wondered even more if it was passive knowledge or something he had asked for. The thought made my mind wander... Why had he never met up with them _and_ me at the same time? Maybe he was afraid of them hitting on me, or worse, the risk of them immediately recognising what he felt for me. Never underestimate a queer’s gaydar. Or maybe they all knew and he was embarrassed, avoiding them playing cupid and trying to hook us up.  
Franco stroked my length with a firm grip, looking up to me.  
“Is there a problem?”  
“Naw... no problem at aw.” I grinned. “You want tae— ”  
Franco interrupted before I even finished my sentence. He licked his fingers to wet them and shoved a digit into me, causing half my sentence to get stuck in my throat.  
“Aye...” Franco mumbled as he began to fingerfuck me. First slowly, then firmer, deeper. With his other hand, he was brushing along my leg, exploring every hair and muscle structure as if he wanted to replicate it in sculpture later. I put one leg on his shoulder, and he grabbed my thigh. Turned his head to the side and gave the soft muscle a little playful bite.  
“Awright, that’s a clear answer... wow...” I mumbled as I was getting taken care of real nicely. Was he trying to woo me by being a caring lover? That surely must’ve been Melanie’s work, he definitely didn’t learn that approach to sex in prison.  
  
Without saying a word, I pushed his hands off me and pulled him up to sit on the couch. I crawled on his lap and kissed him greedily, one hand already on his erect cock. A few good strokes made it clear that he didn’t need further tantalisation, he was rock-hard, pulsating... I spit into my hand, feeling a bit silly with such a ‘seen it in a porn’ move, and thought it would feel sexier. I rubbed my saliva on his prick, knowing fully well that it would dry out way faster than proper lube would. Was I reverting back into teenage stupidity now? I was an experienced man but acted like I had never done this before! His smirk made up for it — he clearly enjoyed it and what it implied I’d do. Franco held my hips and guided me along as I sunk onto him, taking inch by inch into me. After he was only half-way in, he lost his patience and pulled me down. I groaned in surprised pleasure and saw stars dancing in front of my eyes.  
  
“You awrigh?” I said, slowly grinding my hips against his lap, getting used to the amazing feeling. Maybe I asked myself that, but Franco had a hard time responding more than a nod. A broad grin spread on my face when I noticed that he was absolutely losing it. His face was flushed and he absent-mindedly stared at my chest. He slid his arms around me, clinging to my body with a heated possesiveness. I rode him good, with rolling hips, driven by an increasing hunger for the sensation. In no time, I was fucking the shit out of Franco, like a champ. And we wheezed and gasped in shared pleasure, absolutely unclouded by any guilt or resentment.  
“Mark, fucking hell...” He grunted against my chest and lewdly dug his fingernails into my back. Ouch, the cat had claws! Well, a bit of damage was to be expected.  
  
Before either of us reached a climax, he suddenly lifted me off of him and manhandled me into a new position. I was lewd and willing, just wanting to get more of him. So he could’ve done anything to me. He bent me over the seat and grabbed my arse so roughly it gave a slap. He again rammed his swollen cock into my sore, open entrance, and I groaned with the rough impact. Fuck, this was good! I held onto the couch cushion, hoping I wouldn’t accidentally rip anything in the heat of the moment. But I needed to hold onto something when Begbie’s thrusts came hard and ruthless. I wasn’t used to anal sex, to my own deepest regret, but I didn’t mind the unusual sensation at all. It was fucking amazing.  
  
“Is this how you wanted to fuck me way back when?” I teased him, willingly forcing my hips back against his. “Fuck me as hard as you like, Begs...”  
“Ye want tae be fucked hard, Rent Boy?“ He asked, what a gentleman.  
“I always imagined you’d be rough. Dare I say, fantasised?” I smirked over my shoulder.  
“Wha?” He said.  
“Come on, ye think ah just spontaneously decided ah’d be up for it?” I chuckled, although out of breath. “I’ve been thinking about this as much as you did, Franco. Well, maybe not as much. Tried avoiding thinking about ye... but ye always came back. In mind AND in person.”  
  
Suddenly, Franco’s movements faltered and lost their smooth regularity, their control.  
“Yir telling me now? Ye thought about THIS? ...Did that start before or after ye fucked me over?” He demanded to know.  
I pushed myself against him, trying to retain the rhythm that had been working pretty well for me. But he was hestitant.  
“Before!!” I said. “We were ALL making out aw the time, Simon, Spud, Second Price, Mikey, me... we weren’t as picky as the burds, less complicated. But ye never joined, ‘cause ye weren’t oan the gear. Of course ah was thinking about it. Especially when we later moved in together and ah noticed ye had a reason for being so oan edge aw the time...”  
  
His thrusts were now slower, but came with more force.  
“Ye fucking noticed?” He growled.  
“I tried to provoke you, Franco!! Were you blind?” I grinned, almost drooling a little from the arousal. The change of pace hit different and worked all different pleasure centers, adding up more stimulation than I imagined was possible.  
“You couldnae give me clearer signs?!”  
“I was terrified, you were terrified — we just fucked up, mate.”  
“And you still left me behind and let me rot in prison!!” He yelled with a rage that I wasn’t expecting from the new Franco. I thought he had forgiven me! But he suddenly grabbed my neck, which made me choke up (even though it came from behind). And he suddenly began fucking me so roughly as if he was trying to rip me apart ror real.  
  
“Ouch! Ohh!” I wheezed, unable to defend myself against his violent thrusts. “This is grand... ooh... fuck... alright, you can let out your anger like this... this is good... fuu-uu-uu-uck...”  
“How could you do this to me! When you knew that _I loved you_! You CUNT!“ He yelled into my ear, my nape still firm in his grip.  
“You—? Oh— oh shit...“  
He buried his teeth in my shoulder, biting down in a fit of horny rage.  
“Ah! Ow!! Please don’t rip me apart!” I pleaded. I was having a fantastic time, I loved getting railed by Franco the wild animal — but the worry was starting to become a little too real.  
“I’m gaunna tear ye a new one, ye fucking buftie cunt!!”  
He grabbed the back of my head and pushed my face first into the seat cushion. My groans came out muffled. No matter how loud I protested, I could barely make a sound, let alone breathe properly. A tingling sensation of panic spread in my chest, as the air became thinner and thinner, and Franco’s angry hand still didn’t let go of me. I began to flail my arms and struggle, trying to grasp his arms somehow and failing.  
  
Betrayed by my own body, I came hard. And while I twitched and cramped up underneath him, I felt that he was pushed over the edge too, spilling hotly inside of me. This is when he finally let go, and I could gasp for air.  
  
I was feeling dizzy and tingly all over, from my hands to my feet. My breaths came in shallow and fast, without me wanting to. Like small involuntary cramps, I was breathing in, stop, breathing in, stop, breathing in. Franco turned me around, searching for something in my eyes, and put a hand just below my ribs.  
“Take a deep breath against my hand, hold it. One, two, three...” He said, suddenly absolutely calm and detached again. I followed his instruction.  
“Breathe out through your nose, slowly.” He continued.  
We repeated the exercise a few times and I could feel the tingling sensation subside. My lungs were back under my control.  
“Shit. I think I— ” I wheezed.  
“You were starting to hyperventilate...” He mumbled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen...”  
“It’s fine, mate. It’s fine.”  
I broke into almost manic laughter. Franco looked confused, as if I had lost my marbles. I threw my arms around him and gave him a joyous hug. He shyly wrapped his arms around me and squeezed back. When we looked at each other again, he still seemed alienated by my behaviour, but I really couldn’t package it in any other, more subdued way. I playfully knocked my knuckles against his forehead.  
  
“I had no clue ye LOVED me, Franco!” I blurted out. “I know you loved me, but... ah just underestimated how much, ken?”  
“Oh, that. Ah dinnae what got intae me... ah told ye it’s aw forgiven. Ah’m genuinely sorry about roughing ye up just now.”  
“Naw, it’s good! It’s fantastic! Ah think that was necessary!!” I grabbed his shoulders and shook them excitedly. “It felt great! Like it was overdue, ken? I’ve been waiting for a catharsis like this. Even if you didn’t need this, I needed this. Ah mean, ah fucking well love ye, too!” We had said those words before. Even as teenagers, plenty of times. But they had taken on another meaning now. Or had they? I wasn’t all too sure anymore, which meaning I meant now AND in the past. For a split-second, I was terrified, and didn’t quite know of what. The words, meaning that, probably.  
“Hah. Awright.” Franco gave a little hesitant smile, lowering his gaze shily. “Sounds like it wasnae so bad for me to let off some steam... ah’m glad I didn’t seriously hurt ye.” His smile slowly grow broader.  
  
Tired and satisfied from the fuck, we made no effort to get anywhere. We spread some nearby pillows and blankets on the floor to lounge around lazily, observing the fading lights from the DMT wiggle across the sunlit ceiling.  
“Ah can hardly believe we got seriously intimate and ye didnae beat me to a pulp. Ah’ve been fucked by Franco Begbie and I LIVED!” I chuckled, lying in his arm, with my legs comfortably sprawled across his.  
“Ah’m not gaunna beat ye up, mate...” He snickered. “Ah changed, a little bit at least. Maybe not as much as it looks like for most people, but ah got THAT thing sorted out with years of therapy and Mel’s patience. Remember, ah told ye that ah even gave mouth-to-mouth to my gay friend that one time? Don’t mean that as an achievement, ken... there’s no difference between first aid to a straight or a gay bloke, nothing to write home about, but... it felt like something important for my progress.”  
“You used tae be so homophobic. Now yir casually bisexual.” I summarised. “Truth be told, ah jist assumed ye’d turn full gay one day or forever stay in the closet n angry about it, but...”  
“Feels quite obvious now, where aw that anger came from. At least that type, ken. Wasnae my only source.” He mused.  
“Yeah, no, obviously. Everyone you hung out with was using it as an insult left and right. Buftie, arsebandit, homo, et cetera. Even Simon.”  
“It wis makin it harder that you wis obviously not doing that.”  
“Why would I? Ah never thought being gay was a bad thing!! Ah wis interested in boys... jist ended up with burds aw the time.”  
“Aye...”  
“Ah was thinkin, Franco. If ye hud come out, proper. Ye probably would’ve ended up killing half of Edinburgh, gotten rid of everyone who insulted you for it.”  
“Aye... Feels wrong tae use that term for me, though. ‘ _Bisexual’,_ ah mean... doesnae sound right. But ah wanted this for a long time. Wanted to shag ye since we wis teenagers...” He gave a deep sigh, like it was huge weight off his shoulders to finally acknowledge it. It wasn’t news to me, it really wasn’t. But it was amazing to actually hear it coming out of his mouth. I softly knocked my head against his.  
“Ha, you’re a proper Californian alright. Jim ‘I don’t use labels’ Francis.“  
He leaned into my gesture, his forehead against mine, and look me in the eyes from under heavy brows.  
“It was always you when it came to blokes, though. Ah mean it, ah was intae many burds, but yir the only bloke ah wis serious about. Ah jist wanted ye much more than any burd I had, and it jist... didn’t... stop...”  
“Aw, Franco... I... sorry, ah’ve been calling ye Franco aw this time, even though ye changed yir name...”  
“Mark... you can call me whatever you want. Ah like hearing ye say my auld name, Franco is fine. Call me whatever ye want.”  
I looked at him, taking the opportunity to try out some pet names (without getting punched in the face).  
“Baby. Darling. Loverboy. DJ Big-D.” I instantly regretted the last one. Franco broke into a big joyous laughter.  
  
We began to gather our clothes, but realised we should probably take a shower instead. If this was the only time we’d do it before our families returned, that is. Maybe later would be better. I gave him a foxy smirk, and I think he got my drift. Choosing not to get dressed, he opened all windows to let the summer breeze in. We were lazily sprawled across the couch, now listening to Franco’s favourite album “Chinese Democracy” by Guns’n’Roses, which he was SURE I’d understand after hearing it for the 10th time. I wanted to smoke a fag, but he didn’t, so I didn’t do it either. To occupy my mouth, I absent-mindedly began kissing his knuckles, dozing off leaning against him. Post-DMT, post-sex, just lying around felt like _oh so much_ happening.  
  
“...This a one-time thing?“ Franco casually half-swallowed the sentence, as if it didn’t matter that much. He couldn’t be serious. Was he brushing this off as a simple shag, as if we hadn’t had the ups and downs of literal decades leading up to it?  
  
And I was about to say YES without even thinking about it, too. Yes, this was a one-time thing, an isolated event. I was thinking of my girlfriend Vicky, Franco’s wife Melanie, and how great they both were. I knew not to trust my impulses, but didn’t know which was the one sabotaging me: Wanting to break it off with Franco, or wanting to go further and ruin our existing relationships. Everything was great just some hours ago, but I couldn’t help but feeling ecstatic about what we just did. Life’s never easy, is it. But looking at Franco made me remember the decades that bound us together, and how all of that played a role in us being together now. How he’s been a part of my life since we were little kids. Even when he wasn’t around, always haunting my thoughts, always coming back to get me, eventually. He was probably the only real friend I ever had, outside of my family and work (and Spud, the poor soul). My oldest by far. Could barely remember a time where he wasnae in my life yet.  
  
And then I said something even I didn’t see coming.  
“I don’t want to barge into your family, Franco. Mel is a great woman, she’s good for you, and you should be there for your daughters.”  
“That’s not what I’m asking, that’s a given.” He deadpanned.  
“I enjoyed it...” I admitted carefully. “But— ”  
“I’m not asking you to take a decision here, Mark.” He said firmly, almost aggressively. “Do I need to ask again when yir sober?” As if he HADN’T hit the DMT at the same time as me!  
“No, I’m... I’m sober. I feel the afterglow, but I’m as lucid as ever.”  
He looked at me expectantly. I still hesitated, always feeling nervous about discussing such matters. I felt my voice shrinking to a hoarse whisper.  
“Franco, if this was another time, I’d say it could be beautiful. Let’s be together. Move in together, fuck each other senseless every day, spend the rest of our lives as a pair.” I stared at him, feeling the words get stuck in my throat. “Well, we kind of took too long. I took too long. I fucked up.”  
“That’s all I wanted to know...” He looked at me with an intensity similar to his killer eyes, but there was something else about the expression. He continued: “I’ll talk to Mel, you talk to Vicky.”  
“Talk about what?!“  
“Our relationship. We should discuss it. This is California, not Leith... People have open relationships.” He said. “Since when are ye so conservative, auld man?” He punched my shoulder. He was teasing me about my age despite being several years my senior and looking like it was 10 years or more.  
  
I stared at him in shock, but immediately broke into laughter. He was right. I had my lion’s share of affairs and adultery in my life, but _this_ had never crossed my mind? It sounded like a thing I’d do, a thing I’d enjoy doing, but I just... hadn’t done it.  
  
“Open relationships! Who are you?! That’s what the art world has done to you, Frank?! Polyamory?!”  
He cackled but squeezed my shoulder, probably reading my comically exaggerated shock as an agreement.  
“Alright. Yeah. Let’s try it, ah’m up for it.” I said. “But let’s test the waters first, maybe make it hypothetical, the likes. Don’t mention names. If there’s a chance it’d be a strain on your marriage, we pretend this never happened. How about that?” There was a sudden tug in my chest, the dull ache of an anticipated heartbreak. After all these years of Franco loving/loathing me, maybe I had expected he would immediately leave everything behind for a chance of being with me. If we could just talk it over and figure things out. This suddenly real chance that he might reject me, to stay with his wife and kids, was hurting more than I had expected. Maybe I should be less of a fucking cuck, as Simon would say. He’d tell me to have some balls and give Franco an ultimatum — it’s Mel or me! He’s in love with YOU, Simon would assure me, always has been! I had the upper hand if I just offered it to him clearly and firmly. Fuck. Was I fucking this up? What was I doing, I really should not take relationship advice from a hypothetical Sick Boy in my head... and focus on what’s right in front of me.  
  
“You do care about me...” Franco lovingly brushed his hand over my short hair and placed a kiss on my lips.  
“Fuck, apparently I do.” I stammered. “Almost killed a man for you, and now I put your happiness over mine...” I absent-mindedly nudged my nose against his cheek, brushing against him like a cat. I enjoyed fulfilling that deep need for touching each other — which we had translated into punching, shoving and manhandling all these years.  
“I missed you in my life.” I whispered.  
“Missed you, too." He said. "Despite the decades of hurt and disappointment. I mean, ah never stopped searching for ye.”  
“I’ll make it up to you.”  
“Mark, no. Stop saying that. You saved me and my family’s life, I told you we’re even.”  
“I mean sexually.” A smirk crossed my lips, and he was immediately infected. “Hey, maybe I can find some vintage clothes that look like the kind of stuff I used tae wear. Roleplay as our 20-something selves, ken? All you get to experience now is middle-aged me, a greying jetlagged bastard hiding in Hugo Boss leather jackets and Nike shoes.”  
“You dress well. Not as slutty anymore though.” Franco said.  
“See?“  
Frank himself had actually developed some fashion sense, or maybe Melanie dressed him. He now wore the likes of crisp white button downs and straight-cut navy slacks or white t-shirts and blue jeans. Function over form, but always in perfect condition, to get that balance between fitting in and standing out for how well you fit in. Pretty n _ormcore_ , in short. Always clean and crisp, like he was just ordered out of a men’s catalogue.  
  
Franco gave me a look-over and cracked a smirk.  
“I don’t care what you wear, as long as I can get you out of it.” He said. I smirked back and playfully punched his shoulder, after which he punched me right back (much harder of course — that would leave a bruise for sure). I shoved him a little, he shoved me harder. Before I knew it, he had me in a headlock, playfighting for dominance — but we were still very awarely naked, and excited by every touch. We were flirting an awful lot, considering our official plan to break it off if our partners didn’t consent.  
  


* * *

The sun stood high above us, and the sand was warm underneath our feet. Franco and I, we relaxed at the beach in the shade of an umbrella. We watched our kids, Grace, Eve and Alex, as they played not far away from us. Mel and Vicky were on a little drink run, so we paid extra attention that nobody would accidentally drown. With one ear, I was listening to a music history podcast, and with the other, I was listening to Franco. He wasn’t talking much at the moment, the old stoic, but I liked to listen to him nonetheless. He gently put his hand on mine.  
  
My boy Alex was building a sand castle as if it was the most important thing in the world. Repeating movements to stimulate himself, feel the sand between his fingers. Rather than focussing on progress (this wasn’t a contest, so good for him). Frank’s older one, Grace, watched with architect’s eyes. She was clearly trying to figure out how to make this mess more stable, but too polite to say anything just yet. Eve, Franco’s younger one, was digging holes in the sand and burying sea shells in them. She stomped on the little filled graves as if she wanted to crush them under the weight of the sand.  
  
Another boy came along to talk to them. It all seemed fine, but I noticed Franco tensing up, grabbing my hand subconsciously. The boy was talking to Grace and Alex, his face distorted in the arrogant sneer of an overconfident 11-year-old. He asked Alex something, and now I tensed up too. Alex didn’t look at him, probably didn’t even answer him properly. Likely repeated one of his favourite phrases out of context. And then, the boy kicked Alex’s sand castle. Franco was about to rise, when Eve did it instead — raising her little balled fists and speeding at the boy. She screamed a wordless battle cry and had the older kid retreat in terror, probably running to his mom. Her little shoulders were heaving with agitation, and Alex seemed out of it, too.  
  
We walked over to make sure they were all okay (and that Eve calmed down, with some breathing exercises). But it all seemed fine. I noticed Alex was quite impressed with Eve and invited her to build the sandcastle with him. In no time, they were all playing together, and the little shock was forgotten again. Franco and I retreated to our observational post on the beach towel.  
  
“She really comes after her father...” I nudged his side.  
“That’s not the best thing to inherit from me. I’d be glad if they were just like Mel, and nothing like me.” He admitted.  
“She seems loyal and protective. Those are good qualities you have.”  
“Loyal to a FAULT.” He smiled, giving me something that almost counts as a flirty look.  
“Worked out for ME.” I snickered.  
  
“She’s got anger issues. Like her old man.” Franco gave a deep sigh and rubbed his eyes.  
“But I know you’ll be a better dad handling it than your own was. She’ll be fine.” I massaged his shoulder.  
“Thanks.”  
I observed the kids playing in the sand, and how different Alex seemed from the girls. How much he reminded me of Wee Davie, the disabled brother I had been almost happy to lose at first. But Alex, I felt fiercely protective of.  
“I’m glad my dad moved here, too.” I mumbled. “I wouldnae be able to handle Alex on my own. Ye know, he’s work. Vicky never wanted kids, ah’m astonished she’s handling a special needs kid from a past relationship so well.”  
“Mel and I will happily help out, Mark... she’s a therapist, and I’m, well, I can try.”  
“Thanks, yir a good mate.” I squeezed his hand.  
  
“What are ya boys whisp’rin about?” Vicky chuckled behind me. She plopped down next to me, handing me an ice-cold canned beer. PBR or something, nothing I particularly fancied, but probably the best pish available at the nearest 7-11, right by the beach parking lot. With her drinking one, I could drink too, and not feel like a complete idiot for it.  
“The bairns.” I said.  
“The _‘burns’_...?”  
“Oh. Children.” I snorted in amusement. Shifting between Scots dialect with Franco and a more palatable high English with the British lass Vicky and the American gal Melanie was a mental challenge, for sure. But also the source of a lot of amusement. The contrast between Franco’s American sterilized English and the old tongue was even more drastic than mine.  
Mel followed soon after and sat down by Franco’s side, bringing along two cans of apple spritzer for them.  
“How’s everyone holding up, Jim?” She asked.  
“Eve almost beat up some kid for stepping on Alex’s sand castle.” He spoke without any hint of Scots’ gravel in his voice.  
“What? Really?!” She was half-shocked, half-entertained.  
“Yeah, for real. Don’t worry Mel, nobody got hurt. I’ll talk to her later today.”  
“It was pretty fucking cool, actually.” I commented, my Scottish now sounding like bumps on the road.  
“Mark!” He scolded me, half-laughing.  
“No, really!! She’s a badass, your Eve!” I laughed.  
“Maybe she’s turnin into a guard dog like her dad? I mean that in the nicest way possible, Jim.” Vicky teased.  
Begbie blinked slowly, with his mouth pressed into a joyless, polite smile. Probably thinking to himself, how much has that Renton cunt told her about me? Melanie rubbed his shoulder affectionately, as she knew exactly how extreme the Begbie genes could manifest, and that Franco was genuinely worried about it. Terrified he’d infected his lovely daughters with his horrible genetics. But considering Melanie had managed to recover a fucked up cause like him, beaten down by decades of unfortunate circumstances... I think Eve had good chances with parents like them.  
  
Franco put an arm around Mel’s waist and Vicky comfortably leaned against my shoulder.  
Still, Franco kept my hand in his, holding it between us. We loosely intertwined our fingers, and he lifted them, to kiss my knuckles. The four of us enjoyed the peace, the sun, the view, and knew we were at the exact right place at the exact right time.  
  
And most importantly, together.


End file.
